Whumptober: Day 3 - Delirium
by Lif61
Summary: Sam is drinking to try and cope with John not answering his phone calls, and something gets put in his drink.


**A/N: Written for day 3 of Whumptober 2019.**

**Prompt: delirium**

* * *

Sam didn't want to drink. Well, he did, which was why he insisted he didn't. But Dean dragged him out to the bar anyway. And then he'd abandoned him, following some girl out back. Or maybe he'd followed someone else. Sam hadn't been paying attention.

They'd tried calling Dad today.

And nothing.

God, what if he was dead?

Or worse… what if he didn't give a shit?

By the time it was growing late and he was the only person left in the bar (it hadn't been very crowded to begin with), he had half a mind to go find his brother. But knowing Dean he might've already been passed out in the Impala, sunglasses covering his face to take care of his inevitable hangover in the morning.

Sam thought of doing that, but not yet. He needed more to drink.

He actually hadn't been drinking a lot, and he'd gotten talking with the bartender, a man a little older than himself with piercings and a few tattoos. The conversation rolled around to his dad when he began to feel like something was wrong. His thoughts were slowing down, words slurring more than he'd expect.

"You alright, man?" the bartender asked.

"Yeah. 'M fine." Sam fumbled with his wallet, trying to get money out to pay the tab, but he dropped it. The inside of his head pounded, but it wasn't painful, more like a strange tingling and numbness.

_What…?_

Dean. He had to find Dean.

Sam tried stumbling for the door, vision seeming to waver, and he banged into a table.

"Where are you going?"

"Mm?" He glanced back at the bartender, saw the way he was looking at him. Not questioning, and not even a hint of concern. Sam stared at his empty glass on the table. "You— My drink."

"Yeah, I spiked your drink," he admitted, coming around the counter, taking his apron off, and adjusting his belt like he _wanted_ Sam's eyes to be there.

Muscles sluggish, not listening to him, he tried to make a run for it, but he ended up falling.

Phone.

He could try his phone.

The bartender was slowly approaching like he had all the time in the world, and now it seemed as if he was separating into two entities. Sam blinked his eyes, trying to clear his head.

To his relief as he kept backing away, dragging himself across the floor, head spinning, his thumb managed to find Dean's name in his contacts, and thee phone started ringing.

"God, Sam, _what?_" his brother complained. "Can't a guy get some rest after—"

"Help," he forced out, words sounding as though they came from someone else. "Dean, I'm in… the bar. In the bar."

The bartender kicked his phone away.

And then he started trying to pick Sam up, help him to his feet. Sam fought as well as he could as the edges of his vision grew blurry.

But after awhile it just seemed like there were hands on him, holding him up, trying to get him out the door.

He couldn't remember why.

Dean. Was Dean there?

He wanted Dean.

There was a fierce yell, and Sam fell to the floor, bruising himself and hitting his head on the way down. Two men were fighting now, one of them having lunged at the other, and he watched as his eyelids fluttered, threatening to close.

Glass broke, a chair was smacked into the unfamiliar man. A few violent punches later and someone was by his side, holding his face.

Dean.

It was Dean.

"Sam! Sammy?"

Sam smiled up at him, and had the urge to poke his nose, but when he tried to reach out his hand wouldn't lift up. A small noise left him that might've been a laugh, numbness seeping into him. Dean's face swam in front of him, and it was hard to make out his expression.

When he did he saw bared teeth. Anger. A fierceness.

Sam tried pulling himself away.

"Hey, no. It's okay. I gotcha. What'd he give you? You know what he give you?"

Sam shook his head, not entirely sure what Dean was talking about. He swirled his tongue about his mouth as if trying to taste something to answer his question, but all he tasted was alcohol and a strange sweetness.

Maybe that was it.

"Alright, well, I'll get you back to the motel room. You're gonna be fine. First I gotta deal with this loser."

Dean left Sam, who was shocked he hadn't fallen asleep yet, though he supposed the suppressed horror in him was keeping him awake just fine.

"Doesn't look like a monster," he commented, as he stood over the bartender's unconscious form.

Sam couldn't care less, just wanted the black spots he saw to start connecting more till all he saw was black. At least that way he could find some relief.

"Just a sick son of a bitch."

"Dean," Sam called out to him. "I'm okay?" he asked.

Dean kicked the bartender in the face a few times, then turned back to Sam, smiling, "Yeah, you're okay."

He let himself drift off.


End file.
